Anthea
by arts and letters
Summary: Anthea. That is the name that Mycroft Holmes uses when he speaks to her. And that is one of the many reasons why she loves him.
1. Anthea

A/N: This just popped into my head while I was re-watching the Empty Hearse. It's my first time exploring the Anthea/Mycroft relationship.

Update 2/15/15: Thanks to the talents and kindness of Blackie-Noir, this story has now been translated into Spanish. You can find a link to it in my favorite stories or check out their profile page.

* * *

**Chapter 1: Anthea**

She's always hated her given name. So plain, so boring.

Although her parents never told her, and she never asked, she knows without a doubt that her mother chose it for her.

It would have been important to her mother, to choose the name of her first child, her only daughter, and her father would have been happy to let her. It would never have occurred to him to intercede, knowing how much pleasure his wife took in such matters.

But if her father had chosen her name, he would never have picked something so dull, so common. He would have given her a name that was unique and striking and meaningful.

A name like _Anthea_. A name fit for a goddess.

And that's why, when she met Mycroft Holmes for the first time and he asked her name, she lied.

He had to have known that Anthea wasn't her real name. And yet, when she said it, he simply smiled and remarked, "What a lovely name."

They never speak of it—the lie that began their relationship.

Even after he hired her—a task which involved filling out paperwork and performing background checks and other miscellaneous bureaucratic hurdles—he never said a word.

_Anthea._ That is the name that Mycroft Holmes uses when he speaks to her.

And that is one of the many reasons why she loves him.

* * *

She knows she's beautiful. If she ever needs to be reminded, all she has to do is read it in the eyes of the men who watch her walk through the halls.

They always think they're being discrete, but they might as well be shouting at her from the rooftops. And she knows, no matter how far her career progresses, the first thing any of them will see when they look at her is a beautiful face.

Except Mycroft Holmes. She could tell, from the moment they first met, that when he looks at her, he's doesn't see a beautiful women.

When she walks into the room, and he looks up, he sees her, not the shell.

He sees her best self. The side she shows to him, and only him.

He sees _Anthea._

That is yet another reason why she loves him.

* * *

He is the most brilliant man she's ever met.

She had once thought no one could be more brilliant than her father—until she met Mycroft Holmes. With him, they shattered the mold.

Of course, his younger brother comes a close second. And, as her friends never hesitate to point out, there is no doubt which of the two is more attractive.

But that doesn't matter to her.

Why should she care about the attractiveness of the object of her affections? After all, she can be beautiful enough for the both of them.

But intelligence, well—she knows she's clever and competent, a very hard worker—but she will never be brilliant.

Not like her father, and certainly not like Mycroft Homes.

* * *

She misses her father terribly, but in a way, she's glad he's not here to see her like this.

She loves her job, and she's content with her place in the world. Her place in his world. True, it's not where she imagined she'd be, but very few people get to live the life they dreamt for themselves.

Sometimes she feels that maybe something is missing, but most of the time she's content, and it never amounts to anything more than a dull ache in the back of her mind.

But her father would know, when she came over for dinner on Sundays, when they opened presents on Christmas day—he would see, and it would break his heart to watch her settle for anything less than everything.

Then again, maybe her father would understand. After all, his future was limitless until he fell in love, started a family, and settled for a life that would always be beneath him.

But it was worth it. (So he always told her.)

He had been happy. (So he always made her believe.)

And she's happy, too.

* * *

Her mother, well—her mother's only concern is that she settles down soon to begin the business of raising a family.

That's never going to happen, but it would break her mother's heart to know the truth, so she lies instead.

Periodically, she drops hints about a man that she's seeing, because some day soon her mother will pass on—like her father already has—and she doesn't want her mother to go to her death believing her daughter is alone in the world.

Because, although she lives in a one bedroom flat and rarely has visitors, she's not alone, not really. After all, she has her job. And she has Mycroft.

That's enough for her.

But that's not a truth that her mother would understand.

She could never explain to her mother that there is only one man that she could give herself to—fully, and without reservations—and that even if she offered, he would never accept.

And—just maybe—that is another reason why she loves him.

* * *

_Welcome back, Mr. Holmes._

It's not that she was pleased to see Sherlock Holmes disappear for two years to the far reaches of the globe—because she wasn't—and it's not she's disappointed to see him return once again—of course she isn't.

It's just that, while he was gone, she suddenly found herself allowed access into the world of Mycroft Holmes in ways that she never had been before.

It's not that he was lonely. A man like Mycroft Holmes would never know the true depth of loneliness—but Sherlock's absence left a space in his life, and it was a space that she was more than happy to fill.

Sometimes they would just sit together, at night in his office. He would look into the fire, pensively, and she would stare at her blackberry, tapping on the keys—quietly, so as not to disturb his concentration.

And other times they would have dinner together. To discuss work—it was always about the work.

But still, it was the two of them, just talking and eating, and when it was like this—just them—he would let his mask slip, only a little—and she would begin to glimpse the many depths that make up Mycroft Holmes.

(_Mycroft_, he would say to her. _Call me Mycroft._)

And that is why she could never stop loving him, no matter how hard she tried.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes has returned, and she has faded once again into the shadows.

And that's okay. She's willing to settle for things the way they are, the way they always have been.

But she would have given Mycroft Holmes any and every part of herself, if only he would ask.

But he hasn't—and he won't.

If he were any other man—but he's not, he's not like any of the rest.

And that's why she loves him, from a distance.

Because it's the only way she can.

* * *

Sometimes, she thinks, maybe they could have more than this. She could make him happy; she knows that she could.

She could be beautiful, and he could be brilliant.

She feels it most strongly on days like this, as they ride in silence, side by side.

And she wonders, despite herself, why he can't see it, when it seems so clear to her. After all, Mycroft Holmes is the man who sees everything.

But she already knows the answer.

Mycroft Holmes is the most brilliant man she's ever known, and yet, when it comes to matters of the heart, he is completely blind.

* * *

A/N Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you thought of the story if you have a few moments to leave a review.


	2. The Mating Habits of Goldfish

A/N: I've been meaning to post this follow up for awhile, but real world stuff kept me quite busy this past month or so. It's not exactly like I'm un-busy right now, but I currently have some spare time to devote to my writing.

Anyway, on to the story...

* * *

**Chapter 2: The Mating Habits of Goldfish**

It all started the day that a goldfish—a real, living goldfish, in a clear glass bowl with some pebbles at the bottom—showed up on the desk of Mycroft Holmes.

Although Anthea did her best to maintain her composure, she was not entirely successful in the face of Mycroft Holmes obvious discomfort with this turn of events. As always, when it came to matters of this nature, he was completely out of his depth. A rare occasion, but one she was well-equipped to handle.

"Anthea, why is there a goldfish in my office?"

"It's a present from your brother."

"So Sherlock is responsible for this?"

"Well, it certainly wasn't your other brother."

At that, he favored her with a small, genuine smile, but his expression darkened once again when he returned his gaze to the glass bowl on his desk.

"Would you kindly dispose of this for me?"

"Dispose of it, sir?"

"Yes, dispose of it. Feed it to somebody's cat, flush it down the drain, give it a full military funeral—whatever you choose, just remove it from my desk."

"Are you sure? It was a present after all. It might hurt Sherlock's feelings—"

She couldn't quite say that with a straight face, and Mycroft greeted those words with raised eyebrows and a slight quirk of his lips—but nonetheless, her response seemed to soften his resolve.

With a long suffering sigh, he relented.

"Fine, but make sure this _thing _is hidden in the back room before anyone of importance comes by, and be sure to let Sherlock know that it remains here against my protestations. It won't do to encourage him any further."

She tried not to look too pleased.

"Of course, sir. Is that all?"

"Yes, Anthea. You may go."

And with that, she turned around and left, although the image of a flummoxed Mycroft Holmes remained in the back of her mind for the rest of the day. For that alone, it was worth assisting Sherlock in this particular matter.

Usually she would not be so willing to go behind Mycroft's back, but she has learned to appreciate the particular mix of animosity and affection between the Holmes' brothers, and on occasions like this she is happy to play her part.

Nevertheless, she's aware that there is something she's missing in this whole exchange, but that is not so unusual. After all, the brilliance of these two is unmatched by anyone she's ever known, and no one shines brighter than Mycroft Holmes.

Not in her world, at least.

Shortly after she returned to her desk and as she prepared to review the latest files sent over from the Home Office, she was interrupted in her work by the vibration of her mobile phone.

_So what he did say? –SH_

_He didn't seem pleased, but I convinced him not to flush the poor thing._

_Well played –SH_

_He'll come around eventually –SH_

Anthea didn't bother responding after that, although she did quickly delete the text conversation. She'd prefer it if Mycroft didn't know about her involvement in this whole affair, at least not yet.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes was less than pleased—to say the least—when Sherlock barged into his office a few days later during a particularly tense moment in the latest negotiations with North Korea.

"This may come as a shock to you, Sherlock, but those of us who have actual jobs with real responsibilities don't have time to entertain visitors in the middle of the work day. So, to what do I owe the _pleasure_ of your presence?"

Sherlock was undeterred by Mycroft's less than gracious welcome.

"I just came to check on my goldfish."

"I thought this was supposed to be _my _goldfish. Or do you not understand how presents work? That would explain quite a lot actually."

"No, Mycroft, for once, you're the one who doesn't understand. But you will, soon enough."

With that cryptic parting shot—and before Mycroft could respond—Sherlock turned around and left, shutting the door behind him.

On his way out, he paused for a quick chat.

"Hello, Anthea."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes."

Anthea didn't bother looking up from her computer, but that didn't deter Sherlock from continuing. He had come here on a mission after all.

"You seem like the kind of woman who knows what she wants. So tell me, when do you plan on openly declaring your affections for my esteemed older brother?"

That was enough to get her to stop typing, although she still didn't make eye contact. Sherlock appreciated that she didn't bother denying the truth underlying that particular statement—of course, what point would there have been in that? Still, it spoke well of her character, and her suitability as a companion for his older brother.

"I don't imagine my advances would be welcome."

Sherlock also approved of the matter of fact way she said that—not petulant, not melancholy. That didn't make her conclusion any less wrong, though.

"Come now, Anthea. You know my brother as well as anyone. It's all a matter of how you ask."

"Is that all, Mr. Holmes?"

"For now, yes. I'll just see myself out, shall I?"

Anthea simply nodded in response.

She already had her eyes glued to the screen, and her fingers were tapping away on the keyboard. But her mind—her mind was elsewhere.

Not so long after that, the buzzing of her mobile phone interrupted her train of thoughts. She was not surprised when she checked her mobile and found a new message from Sherlock Holmes. Although the content_—_well, that was a little unexpected.

_You should know that you wouldn't be the first, and the few who came before you always had to make the opening move. –SH_

Her better judgment told her not to respond, but she couldn't quite stop herself, not after that kind of revelation.

_What happened to those other women?_

_That doesn't matter. —SH_

_Why not?_

_Because, Anthea, those women aren't you. –SH_

That last message did little to clear up her confusion, but she had spent enough time with the Holmes brothers to know when a subject was closed, so she simply deleted the most recent messages and returned to her computer.

* * *

Before she could take her leave for the day, she had one last task to complete, so she grabbed the necessary supplies and quietly opened the door to Mycroft Holmes's office. She was startled to find that it was not empty, as she had expected it to be.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes. I didn't expect you to be in so late."

"Nor did I," he responded with a small grimace. "Is there something I can assist you with? I'm assuming you had a reason for coming in here at this late hour."

"Yes, of course. I was just going to feed the fish before I left for the day."

"To feed the fish?"

"Yes, sir. Fish do need to eat."

"Have you been doing this often?"

"Did you think the fish just lived for two weeks without eating anything?"

"Well, I suppose I hadn't given the matter much thought."

He watched her thoughtfully as she scattered a few flakes of food on the water's surface, and they both looked on together as the fish efficiently bobbed up and down in the water to collect its dinner.

"Tell me, Anthea, does this _goldfish_ have a name that I should be using?"

"No, sir. I don't put much stock in names."

"Really? I always thought you had quite a way with them."

She tried not to blush at that, even though it was one of the most meaningful compliments she'd ever received from the most important man she had ever met.

And, because she's always been quick on her feet, a few seconds later it came to her.

"Aurora."

"Pardon?"

"Her name is Aurora."

"The goddess of the dawn. How lovely."

"Yes, and it shares a similar root to the Latin word for gold."

"_Aurum_. Yes, very fitting, indeed."

Even as she bid goodbye to Mycroft for the night, she instantly began committing his exact words and his exact tone to memory, so that she could replay them over and over again in the privacy of her own thoughts.

That night, as she lay in bed in her empty apartment waiting for sleep—her mobile phone by her hand in case she received important correspondences during the night—she ran through her conversation with Mycroft over and over in her head, allowing herself to bask in the welcome warmth of his praise. She knew that tonight she had seen a side of Mycroft Holmes that few others ever would.

Although she did not wish to dwell on them for long, she also couldn't quite ignore her conversation with the younger Holmes brother, either.

Was it really so simple? Was it really just a matter of asking?

She had convinced herself for so long that any advance would be foolish and unwelcome, had used that conviction like a shield to protect herself from wanting something she couldn't have, but what if—what if there was a chance, however small? What if the one thing she wanted most of all could be hers?

The wisdom of her actions had seemed so clear to her before, but now, she found herself wondering, what if?

When she was a girl, her father always told her that she could have whatever she wanted from the world as long as she was willing to take it. She had lived by those words in all aspects of her life except this one, so why should she let the only man she could ever love slip through her fingers?

She fell asleep still fighting this war within herself, and awoke in the morning with a feeling of elation and only vague memories of a dream—the two of them, together, no work, no phones, no files, just them, talking, touching—

And that was the moment she vowed to make Mycroft Holmes hers.

* * *

If she wanted the attention of any other man, she knew exactly what she should do. A little bit of skin, a certain look in her eye, a smile—and he would be hers.

But Mycroft Holmes is not like them. He would not be won over by cheap tricks.

So she decided to appeal to the part of Mycroft Holmes that she loved the most.

His mind.

Although she has devoted only a sparse amount of her time to the study of psychology, she does remember learning about the concept of priming, whereby the exposure to one stimulus can lead to an unconscious response to a subsequent event.

That was the inspiration for her opening move.

A few days later, she arrived in Mycroft Holmes's office with a larger fish tank and a second goldfish.

She waited—attentively and nervously—for his response. Would he instantly dismiss her? Would his usually placid demeanor turn to anger?

When his only response was, "I suppose this one also has a name?" along with a theatrical, put-upon expression, she knew she had succeeded in her first task.

"Of course."

She paused, for effect, savoring the moment, before the revelation.

"His name is Tithonus."

"Tithonus," He repeated, contemplatively. "The mortal man who dared to love a goddess."

And then he quoted, _"Yet hold me not forever in thine East/How can my nature longer mix with thine."_

She smiled as she said, "I've always loved that poem."

"As have I."

They both shared a quiet moment of appreciation before Mycroft's expression turned sour.

She was uneasy for a moment, wondering where things had taken a wrong turn, but then Mycroft said—

"Please don't tell my brother about this."

And with those words, her tension disappeared.

"Your secrets are safe with me, sir," she said, casually, with a slight smile.

"Yes, they are."

His words were quiet, but suffused with warmth and meaning.

Although not many people would know it, she could read the hidden depths in those three words. For a man like Mycroft Holmes, trust is one of the most important—and hardest won—rewards.

And she had it. He trusted her, above anyone else.

But could he grow to love her?

The only way to know would be to ask.

* * *

On the day when she would finally declare her feelings for Mycroft Holmes, she waited until there was a lull in activity in the early afternoon, once the most recent fires had been put out and at a time when she knew Mycroft would have a few moments free.

She had outlined her general points in advance, although she hadn't written it out in full. It wouldn't do to seem too rehearsed. Besides, although Mycroft Holmes is a man of reason, this is still an affair of the heart.

She was nervous—how could she not be?—but she was not a person who would let her fear rule her actions, and so when the moment was right, she got up from her desk, quickly glanced in the mirror, took a deep breath, and knocked softly on the door separating their offices.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, Anthea?"

"May I speak with you for a moment?"

"Of course."

Normally she would sit down, but just this once, she decided to stand.

She took a deep breath, and then began to speak.

"I've come to the conclusion that we should add a more intimate component to our professional relationship. I hope, once I've laid out my reasoning, you'll agree with me."

That was the only line she had decided on in advance. She never liked to tiptoe around her main point.

"I don't need to flatter you by telling you how brilliant you are, because you know that already. I will never be your intellectual equal—who could be?—but that doesn't mean we couldn't be great together."

"I think I can make you happy in a way that no one else could. I know what you're like when nobody else is in the room. I can tell when you want silence and when you want to talk. I know what to say when you want to listen."

"How many other people could you imagine being with for so many hours at a time? Who else would you share all of the details of your day with? How many people would be willing to listen? How many people could you trust to keep your secrets?"

"But you already trust me, even with your most important and confidential affairs. All I'm asking now is that you trust me with your heart."

Mycroft opened his mouth as if to interrupt, but she cut him off before he had a chance to speak.

"Don't tell me you don't have one. I know that's not true, sir, and I think you do too. Or maybe you believe what you've always said—in which case, give me a chance, and I'll show you what kind of heart you have."

"I don't expect flowers or chocolates or poetry or presents. All I want is you, any part that you're willing to share with me."

Once she finished her speech, she finally allowed herself to focus on his expression, and for the first times since the beginning of their acquaintanceship, Mycroft Holmes looked very uncertain of himself. She wasn't sure if that was because of what she had said or the fact that he had never heard her string together so many words in one go.

Holding her breath, she waited for his response, but when he finally spoke, it was only to say, "You could have far more attractive men than me, Anthea."

"I don't care about good looks—mine or yours. I'm not like those other women."

The look of confusion on his face morphed into something else entirely—something far away that she couldn't place.

"No, you're certainly not."

And after that, he remained silent.

Once it became clear that he would not be responding any further to her declarations, she decided to make as graceful an exit as possible, considering everything she had just revealed to the man she most admired.

"I'll be in for your 5 o'clock briefing on the Middle East."

And with that, she left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

It wasn't the response she had hoped for, but it was nothing other than what she expected—not really.

So she returned to her desk in the next room, and began reviewing the documents sent over earlier that day from the Ministry of Defence.

Twenty minutes later, the intercom was activated, and she heard Mycroft's voice on the other end.

"Anthea? Could you come here for a moment?"

She got up from her desk, opened the door separating their offices, and walked inside.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

"Would you care to join me for dinner?"

"Of course, sir. Should I bring the North Korea files with me?"

"Actually, I was thinking we might dine out. There is a wonderful French restaurant not far from here that I believe you might enjoy."

Not yet sure of the meaning behind his words, hoping but afraid to trust her heart, she asked—

"Should I make the reservation, sir?"

She waited, holding her breath, and when he said—

"Allow me to take care of that."

Her doubts disappeared.

And when he added—

"In fact, why don't you take the rest of the afternoon off. I'll be by to pick you up at 7," and then paused, unsure of himself, before adding, "That is, if this would be agreeable to you?"

She felt her heart expand with joy, and she replied, with a smile—

"Always."

And in turn, he graced her with a rare, genuine smile of his own, which was all the more special because she knew that it was just for her.

"Excellent. I shall see you at 7."

Then as she started to exit the room, he called out to her.

"Oh, and one last thing."

She paused, hand on the door.

"Call me Mycroft."

* * *

A few hours later, they were riding side by side in the back of Mycroft's car as they so often do, but this evening was unlike any of the ones before.

She wore a flattering but sensible black sheath dress and he wore one of his nicest suits—sophisticated and stylish in the understated way that perfectly suited Mycroft Holmes.

As the driver took them through the streets of London, Anthea answered emails on her mobile phone—some things never change—until she noticed out of the corner of her eye that rather than staring out the window as is usually his custom, Mycroft was watching her, quietly and contemplatively.

Feeling emboldened by her recent success, she leaned in a bit closer to him, and when he didn't move away, she reached out, resting her right hand lightly on his leg.

When he tensed slightly, she prepared to withdraw—

But then he took his left hand, laid it on top of hers, and laced their fingers together.

In that moment she knew, without a doubt, that finally—at last—Mycroft Holmes was hers.

She vowed never to let him go.

* * *

A/N: Thank you to everyone who took the time to read this, and a special thanks to those who left such nice comments on the first chapter. I originally envisioned this as one shot, especially since I had never given much thought to this pairing before starting this, but the positive responses I got encouraged me to explore this relationship further, and that's how this sequel was born. I'm marking this as complete for now, but if inspiration strikes again, I may come back later and continue this little love story.

I really hope you enjoyed reading this, because I certainly enjoyed writing it. If you're up for leaving a review, I always love getting feedback on my works.

One final note: the two lines of poetry that Mycroft quotes come from the poem "Tithonus" by Alfred Lord Tennyson. It's a personal favorite of mine, based on the myth of Tithonus who is made immortal so that he can be with his lover Aurora. Although the poem/myth doesn't exactly have a happy ending (to put it mildly), I still liked the way it tied together some of the themes of the story, and I liked the subliminal message of getting two goldfish named Aurora and Tithonus. It also seemed fitting once I found out that the name Anthea was used as another name for the goddess Hera (thanks Wikipedia!), so I felt like it tied into the whole goddess/goldfish symbolism nicely. Plus, I just really like this poem.

Here's a link to the full text of the poem: poem/174656

P.S. If you made it through this story AND this absurdly long author's note, I salute you :)


	3. Sentiment

A/N: Wow, I can't believe it's been more than a year since I first posted this story! I suppose we're more than overdue for an update.

I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Blackie-Noir, who has been kind enough to do translations of several of my works including "Anthea". Her enthusiasm for this story, as well as the positive response I've gotten from the other reviewers here, helped inspire me to work on this continuation. Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 3: Sentiment**

Mycroft and Anthea have been together now for several short, wonderful months.

In many ways, during their work hours, nothing has changed. They are both as busy as ever, working side by side, putting out fires, resolving crises, starting new ones.

There are small changes, of course, that only the most astute observer would see.

Extended eye contact, a smile that is only for them, a hand on his arm as they look over notes from a meeting, a little bit less distance as they sit side by side at the conference table.

And then, when the office is empty, when it is just the two of them, sometimes they retire to the office sitting room, a cozy set up complete with fireplace, sofa, arm chairs, and a vast selection of tea and biscuits.

Often they'll start in their own places, Mycroft in his favorite chair, Anthea on the sofa, with her legs tucked up under her.

And then, over time, Mycroft might come join her on the sofa, at first with the pretense of discussing a particular document, but sooner or later, the papers will be set aside, and all work will be forgotten.

Or, on other nights, when Anthea senses Mycroft is too overworked for his own good, she'll get up from her seat, walk over, take the papers right out of his hand, and toss them on a nearby table so that she can take up the space in his lap where the papers once were.

Sometimes he pretends to object, but she knows better than to believe him, and his objections disappear as soon as she's in his arms again.

* * *

For a man like Mycroft Holmes, being in a relationship—and dare he say it, being 'in love'—is an entirely new experience, one that is simultaneously terrifying and thrilling.

It is thrilling in its newness, in its excitement, in the pleasure of being so free, so uninhibited, so at peace with another person. He has never allowed himself to become so close to any one—other than Sherlock, that is.

But his relationship with his brother is, of course, something else entirely. It's a relationship built on love, naturally, of brotherly duty and loyalty, but it is also a relationship with sharp edges, with many acrimonious moments, a relationship of machinations and reservations, although it is no less meaningful for all of their petty fights and minor disagreements.

Still, what he has with Anthea, it's incomparable to the love he might feel for his brother, or their parents. The passion she inspires in him eclipses anything else he's ever known.

And yet, there is a part of him that can't help but be ill at ease, and that in and of itself is yet another kind of newness that he has had to grapple with.

Mycroft has never been anything other than sure of himself. He has always known what he's wanted and how to get it, and nothing could stop him from getting his way.

Until now, that is.

Being in love—yes, he can admit that's what this is, in the privacy of his own thoughts, at least—it has made him more open, more emotional, more human than he ever believed he could be.

He never thought he wanted something like this, and yet now he can't imagine a life without love or a future without Anthea.

And that alone is terrifying.

He would like to say that he has handled himself with grace and dignity throughout these early days, but truth be told, that has not always been the case.

* * *

It was only two weeks after their first date that he made his first attempt to end things.

They had both had a particularly late night, a night that went even later once Anthea joined him back at his home, and they stayed up together, at first in the living area, and then in the bedroom, until close to dawn, only just slipping off to sleep in each other's arms as the sun began to rise.

Neither of them remembered to set an alarm—Mycroft usually woke up by sheer force of habit, and the gentle ping of a text on Anthea's blackberry was all the alarm she needed most days.

But her blackberry lay forgotten in the kitchen that morning, and they were both so soundly asleep that they did not wake until well after nine.

And that is how they came to be arriving to work at the embarrassingly late hour of 10 am. Or rather, Mycroft arrived at 10 am, and Anthea at 10:30 am, because they both silently agreed that they could not risk showing up together.

* * *

At the end of the day, when Anthea comes to his office and asks if they will be dining out or dining in, Mycroft starts to stammer about how—

_maybe this isn't prudent_

_think of what it could do to our careers_

_what might happen if the relationship ends acrimoniously_

And Anthea stares at him as he stumbles over his words, and she waits for him to finish, before saying, "This means more to me than any job ever could. I can't say what might happen a year or even a month from now, but I do know that today I don't want to be anywhere other than here with you."

She pauses, refusing to look away, keeping her voice even, as she adds, "If you don't feel the same, then we can end our personal connection, and return to a strictly working relationship."

Mycroft opens his mouth to respond, but Anthea interrupts again, "But don't try to convince yourself that you're doing this for me. I know what I want, and what I want is you. This is where I choose to be."

And when she finally stops speaking, Mycroft stares at her with an inscrutable expression.

She waits as he gathers his thoughts. Finally he says, "There is nowhere else I would rather be than here with you."

Hearing those words, she smiles at him. "Good, because I've made reservations for dinner, and I've already set our alarms for 6 am tomorrow, so that we won't be late for our 8 am meeting."

He smiles back at her, and when she reaches out her hand to him, he accepts her invitation, lacing their fingers together, as they walk side by side out of the office and into a waiting car.

* * *

That is neither the first nor the last crisis of conscience that Mycroft has, of course.

A few weeks later, a private 'meeting' in the cramped file room is interrupted by a maintenance man opening the door—or attempting to, since they had prudently locked the door before convening their liaison.

Hearing the rattling of the door handle, they instantly break their embrace, and Mycroft straightens his tie as Anthea tucks in her blouse, and as soon as they finish making themselves presentable, they quickly make their exit.

The incident, however, is enough to give Mycroft pause, but he cannot put his feelings to words, so instead of broaching the topic, he simply makes his excuses when Anthea invites him to join her in the sitting room that evening, and so she goes back to her flat by herself, and Mycroft remains in the office until long after midnight, when he finally returns to his home, alone, and spends the night staring at the ceiling, too conscience of the empty space beside him in bed to ever drift off to sleep.

* * *

One afternoon, several months into their courtship, Anthea is at her desk, attempting to focus on her work, although her mind is constantly drawn back to the man in the neighboring office.

Most days it seems like things between them are perfect. She is happier than she has ever been, and often the same seems to be true of Mycroft.

And yet, she knows him so well—maybe even better than he knows himself—and she cannot help but notice that something is missing. She can sense his apprehension. She can't ignore the ways in which he sometimes seems to close himself off from her.

Many times she has attempted to broach the subject, only to find that words fail her.

Still, she can't help but try to read the meaning behind his silence, and she can't help but worry that his reticence signals the beginning of the end of their happy courtship.

She is so lost in these musings that she barely notices when the younger Holmes brother walks into the office and seats himself in the chair opposite her desk.

"Good afternoon, Anthea."

"Hello, Mr. Holmes."

"Please, call me Sherlock. After all, you are practically family."

"I wouldn't go that far."

"Trouble in paradise?"

"I wouldn't say that."

"No? So how are things going with my older brother, then?"

"Fine, I suppose."

In response to her tepid answer, Sherlock says, "I know that Mycroft can be quite tiresome—"

Quickly, she responds, "No, it's not that at all. I care about him as much as I ever did—more if that's possible."

"Ah, so the problem is him, then."

She shrugs, and says, "I don't expect much. He's not demonstrative by nature, and I don't need nor do I want him to change that, but sometimes I wonder if he really cares for me at all. I know we've only been together for a short time, but I would happily spend the rest of my life by his side, and I have no idea if he feels the same. "

"Let me talk to him."

"I really don't think—"

Completely deaf to her objections, Sherlock says, "Don't worry! I'll sort things out."

And then he's gone before she can get out another word.

* * *

While Anthea is out of the office the next day—Sherlock had surreptitiously checked her calendar during his previous visit—Sherlock walks into Mycroft's office and sits down without waiting for an invitation.

Mycroft doesn't bother looking up from his papers as he greets his younger brother with, "To what do I owe this intrusion?"

"Your paramour seems less than pleased with your current state of affairs."

That is enough to make Mycroft look up from his work. "I have no idea what you're implying, but I am entirely certain this is none of your concern."

"Your welfare is always my concern, brother mine."

"Oh, really?"

"You have been much more bearable to be around since you commenced your relationship with Anthea."

Genuinely curious, Mycroft asks, "Have I?"

"Certainly—at least in a relative sense. I dare say she's the best thing that could ever happen to you. After all, my business has been booming, and I can't be here at all hours keeping you company."

"Really, Sherlock—"

Abruptly switching tactics, Sherlock says, "She's a remarkable woman, isn't she?"

Mycroft is thrown off by this sudden change in course, so he simply responds with, "Yes, of course."

"And you care about her, don't you?"

"More than I ever thought possible."

"Have you told her?"

"Not in so many words, but surely—"

"Come now, Mycroft. Poor Anthea practically had to throw herself at you before you realized the perfect woman was sitting ten feet from your desk. The least you could do is make it clear to her that her affection is reciprocated."

"I suppose—"

"Unless you'd rather she go out and find someone else to spend her time with. I'm sure there are plenty of men who would be happy to take up the position if you—"

Mycroft is shocked by the sudden feeling of jealousy that wells up in him, and he stumbles over his words as he says, "How could—I would never—absolutely not."

"Ah, so maybe there is someone else you've set your sights on?"

"There is no one but her for me."

"I see."

Mycroft can't help but be drawn in by Sherlock's enigmatic response. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"You're afraid."

"I am not!"

"Yes, you are. I recognize the signs. You're afraid to give in to sentiment. You're afraid to open yourself up to a happy life with a beautiful woman by your side."

"Not at all."

"Well, if you're not afraid, then I don't see what is stopping you from making your intentions clear. After all, you're not a young man, and Anthea is clearly a woman who knows her own mind. You would be foolish to risk losing her because you can't bring yourself to admit the depth of your affection."

Mycroft opens his mouth, but before he can respond, Sherlock has walked out the door, leaving Mycroft alone with his thoughts.

* * *

One week later, Mycroft is sitting in his arm chair, a pile of papers in his lap, although he hasn't turned a page or read a single word in several hours.

As much as he hates to admit it—and even though he would never confess this out loud—there is some wisdom in the words of his younger brother.

He knows in his heart of hearts that it is time for him to make his intentions known. It's not fair to them—either of them—to continue on in this state of uncertainty.

With that conviction in mind, he sets the papers aside, and calls out, "Anthea, would you join me for a moment."

He hears the sound of her chair as she pushes back from the desk, and then the beats of her heels on the wood floor.

When she enters the room, she stands in the doorway, as he says, "There is something that I would like to discuss with you."

She takes in his expression. "Is it serious?"

"It is quite important, yes."

She continues to stand, uncertain, until he says, "Please, have a seat," and so she sits on the sofa and looks to him, waiting for him to speak.

"Anthea, it has come to my attention that I may not have made my intentions clear to you in these early days of our courtship. I fear that maybe I have given you a false impression of my feelings, and I thought it of the utmost importance that I correct this error."

As he pauses, gathering his thoughts, she interjects, in a quiet tone, "You're ending this, aren't you?"

For a moment, Mycroft is caught so off-guard that he freezes, with his mouth half open, no words coming out.

But he's stirred out of his speechlessness a moment later when he catches the hurt and sadness buried underneath Anthea's carefully neutral expression.

Without thinking, he stands up, goes to sit beside her, and reaches out, taking her left hand in both of his.

With deep sincerity, he says, "Never."

Then smiling ruefully, he adds, "I suppose emotional declarations never have been my strong suit."

With fondness, she responds, "Of all your many talents—no, not really."

"Does that trouble you?"

There are hints of concern, maybe even insecurity, in Mycroft's voice.

She shakes her head once, emphatically, and then places her right hand on top of both of his, before adding, "I would never wish for you to be anything other than what you are."

"Nor would I wish that from you."

"Good, because I would say we're both pretty set in our ways."

"That we are," he says, and then he leans down, and places a gentle kiss on top of her hand, which is still clasped in his.

He looks up, and for a moment, he almost loses himself in the expression on her face, the warmth in her eyes, and in his utter shock that a woman like her could be so devoted to a man like him.

As if sensing his thoughts, she says, "I could never love anyone the way I love you."

"And I have never loved anyone as I do you."

She smiles, even more broadly, and a faint blush appears on her face, before she asks, "So if you weren't trying to break up with me, what was all of this about?"

"Ah, I just had a question, a proposition, that I wanted to make, for your consideration."

Shifting into her work mode, she asks, "Is this about our covert operations plan for the India affair? Because—"

"No, no, nothing of the sort."

"Then what—"

Before she can finish her sentence he says, "In the time since we began our courtship, I have known happiness that I never thought possible. I have experienced wants and desires that I never before considered. You have made me happier and more human than I ever expected to be. I never thought this would be what I wanted for myself, and yet now, I can't imagine a future without you in it."

Mycroft stops, takes a deep breath, and says, "And so, what I wanted to ask you was—"

He pauses again, untangles his hand from hers, and then reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out a small box, opens it up, and asks, "Anthea, will you marry me?"

As soon as he gets the words out of his mouth, he looks to her, watches as her expression freezes in surprise, and he feels a sudden jolt of uneasiness, wondering if he's made an error in judgment, if maybe he's gone too far—

But then she breaks out into the most radiant smile—so brilliant that it eclipses the sparkling stone on the ring which he continues to hold in his right hand—and the barest hint of tears springs to her eyes.

Unable to find any words, she simply nods—once, twice, three times—and she holds out her hand to him, he slips the ring onto her finger, and then she flings her arms around his neck, and he pulls her in close to him.

Holding her tightly to his chest, he can feel the warmth of her breath on his neck as she whispers, "Yes, of course."

And hearing those words, he vows to himself, come what may, he will never let her go.

* * *

A/N: I hope this didn't get too sappy, but what can I say, this is just sort of the place that the story took me to. I hope all of you enjoyed it!

At this point, I think it's quite likely that I'll add another chapter to this story, because I've become very fond of this little Mythea universe, but I'm juggling several other WIPs at the moment, so I can't really predict when a continuation might get posted. Then again, I only started toying with this particular chapter a few weeks ago, and I wrote the majority of it (about 2,500 words) last Sunday, so if I have some free time and creative energy, I might get around to posting sooner rather than later.

Please take a few moments to leave a comment if you're so inclined. I would really love to hear what you thought of this third installment!


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